Secrets of the Clown
by Medorikoi
Summary: He had a secret. A secret everyone and no one knew.


He had a secret.

Of course he had a secret. But no matter how obvious, how silly, no one would ever know.

'_Do you know how I got these scars?'_

Because he had _no_ idea.

They thought he lied to them, they though he was crazy, a freak. They could not understand that he was waiting for it to click. For a story to feel right. Because when it was right, when it was true, he would know. Something in his mind would kick into gear and it would feel right. Like slamming into the Bat, like setting up the human race for failure and watching them die, pawns, mindless nothings. Good.

The stories he told them were easy, they slipped from his twisted lips like wine from a bottle, no thought, images and people and things in front of him twisted into something, anything.

But they never clicked.

And here is another secret. So when nothing clicked…when he still did not know he made up pasts. Reasons. If it happen to be more fun to think of with the Bat then so what? It was destiny.

Maybe they were young together, children, playmates. Best friends. Lovers. Maybe it was something that turned them both into this, the Bat and the Clown. What could turn his dark little Batsy into the Bat he is today? Sin. Maybe his dark prince was repenting, trying to erase his dark scarred past. Maybe he let him be tortured. Maybe he did not try to save him.

What if his Bat, beautiful and young and human was in trouble? With the mob, with a lowlife, maybe he owed a lot of money, maybe he killed someone's mom, maybe he fucked someone's mom. Maybe the mobsters took them both. Maybe they held him down on the greasy floor and carved his face, maybe they beat him, maybe they raped him. Maybe the Bat even cried for him.

But it should be worse shouldn't it? For no memories to remain? And it didn't quite click, he did not feel…whole. What in Gotham could be so dark that even his own mind, the holy grail of darkness, of disparity and twisted humor, would hold it back from him? Hide it in the darkest part of himself, of man?

Maybe it was the Bat himself. Maybe he was on drugs, maybe he lost his mind in this terrible modern world where life was nothing and death meant only financial loss or gain. Maybe they were friends; maybe he was visiting one day and he pushed him to the ground. Maybe he had said something wrong and that was all it took. Maybe as the blade was thrust into his mouth the Bat had thrust into _him_. Maybe he had been in love.

Maybe not.

But then the story was not complete, real or false it was only half alive. So he made their ending. Like the brilliant pervert said "Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall." Maybe he and the Bat had risen together, Maybe the Bat had sinned his way into existence, maybe that sin drove him mad. Maybe he would spend his whole life trying to redeem himself. Maybe he would by virtue fall.

Maybe someday they would all catch up with him, catch up with the clown who was not loved even in his own city. Maybe two-face would flip the coin again for him. Maybe this time he would be set to die. Maybe the Bat would try and stop it. Even Harvey wouldn't flip the coin for the Bat again.

No. Maybe something else. Something more.

Maybe Arkham finally got its rotting hands into his flesh. Maybe they pumped him full of drugs, maybe the electrocuted him until his body and mind were numb, until all he could see was the rotting flesh of that place. Maybe they would destroy him, kill him by ripping him to pieces. Maybe the beatings would increase in severity, maybe they would stop giving him food altogether. Maybe they would leave him with only the toilet as drinking water. Maybe the Bat would come to save his wasted body. Maybe the doctors of needles and pain would finally catch their bird. Maybe Strange and Crane would finally have their vivisection, all because the Bat was trying to save him. Save him after the scars had already wasted his face, settled and scarred his life.

Maybe.

He never felt the click. The right. The yes. But sometimes in the nights without drugs, when he was real, when his fingers ran over the ridged scars so many times they grew numb he felt something sick and heavy. Something making him ill. But he would stop then. The story would change. Maybe he just had to keep thinking. Maybe someday the words would just pour from him. _Yes. I understand._

Maybe someday the Bat would figure out his secret.

Maybe.


End file.
